


Ancient

by ElvenMaia



Series: Inkwell [8]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Again, Gen, Memorials, Poetry, Written for a Class, how does poetry work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:15:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24433438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenMaia/pseuds/ElvenMaia
Summary: Gilraen’s memorial is greeted by two sullen visitors besides the passing years and the changes of seasons in the ancient forest. In life she was valiant, and now in death her memorial has one last plea: ‘Remember me...’
Series: Inkwell [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528916
Kudos: 1





	Ancient

Dewdrops hang on suspended silk, glimmering

Like newborn stars; barely breathing.

Birch, beech, and ash stand solemnly as silent vigils,

Heady roots twisting and churning; bark riddled with ridges

Of etched flowing script, scratched deep, deep, deep,

Pleading ‘remember me; please never leave.’

The Sun upturns her glowing face; cheery, youthful, and golden

A small child, she skips her way seeking over the weary horizon,

Peering through sturdy boughs, waking leaves, and drooping branches

The South wind flits by; circling and sweeping ‘round her warmth, he dances

They twist together, fluttering leaves pirouetting, shifting like a million emeralds winking

The Sun casts her consoling eyes, through the crown of foliage cheering

And caresses a wizened face with downcast eyes, presented like a teary greeting

Her countenance darkens, fingers of molten gold lingering on a smoothed marble cheek

“Come” she calls to the South wind, suddenly bleak

His lips are in a pucker, whistling with the rustling symphony

He spins along in answer, but then suddenly stops; for her somber-ness is stifling

There stands a figure, all a-cloaked in sweeping robes of bone-white satin.

Her eyes are blank and skin like glossy marble; bonnet perched and bow neat and tightened

Her hands are clasped in her lap, stiff locks curling down her shoulders

Her lissom legs are crossed in front of her and she is seated on a sculpted boulder

The Sun stands quietly, prodding the roses, daisies, and lilies at the figure’s feet

She had listened before, but the white stranger’s heart has no beat

The South wind ponders, brow furrowed, and bursts into a swirling flurry

He grasps at her hair, her cloak, and brushes her hood away, worried

The figure shifts not an inch, and her hair doesn’t sway;

Not like the Living who humor the South wind to go run and play.

The figure stands frozen, pondering the wilting bouquet laying before her

The wind stumbles back, seeking to whip the leaves into a stir

The Sun turns away to hide her face in the sky’s comforting embrace;

Written there upon the tree is “My dear mother; never will I forget your face.”

oOoOoOo


End file.
